Say Something
by Nakiasha
Summary: Romano and Spain have been through a lot together, but some relationships were never meant to work out. When one person gives up and the other does not, what are they to do? Spamano.


**Not really happy with this, but I'm done working on it. This idea didn't really work out, but maybe you can see what I was doing. (Exactly following the lyrics for Say Something by A Great Big World.)**

* * *

They had had another fight. It was a normal occurrence, but each time Romano stormed out on him something constricted inside his heart. What could he have done to make sure that their argument never happened? His dark hair falling to cover his face Spain summoned the courage to call the angry Italian. Flicking his bangs out of his jaded eyes with a swishing sound he clicked the first speed dial on his phone.

It rang multiple times before the notice to "please leave a message at the tone" sounded into his ears. The Spaniard couldn't decide whether that was better or worse than what he had been faced with last time, which was refusal. So he dialed again.

"Say something, please Romano I'm sorry!"

"I'm giving up on you," came the whispered reply, followed by silence.

"I'll always be the one if you want me to…" He cried back, his voice cracking. He could feel his innards twisting, lungs collapsing on themselves as he attempted to choke back his sobs. Tears staining his cheeks and shirt collar Spain gently set his cell down on the smooth countertop. Jerking back in forth as undistinguishable noises ripped out of his throat, the once proud nation slid to the floor.

"I would have followed you anywhere," he mumbled under his breath.

-xXVXx-

The Italian had never wanted things to turn out the way they had. Even he, with his stubbornness could admit that he shouldn't have pried into Spain's belongings, but he was just worried. Was that a valid excuse for snitching government reports on the major collapse Spain's affairs. But instead of voicing what he felt Romano knew he had done what he always did; cover it up with callous lies and a lot of yelling. The questions that the Spaniard had asked were justified, and instead of answering them he had run away from the situation.

"Well that's what Italy's famous for isn't it," he mumbled to himself with a sarcastic smirk on his face. "Turning a blind eye to important issues."

Walking alone in the park at night was strangely calming, but at the same time it did nothing but make him feel worse about being there alone. 'He should be here,' a voice muttered from the back of his head. 'He would love this. Always talking about how beautiful the full moon is…' The moon was indeed full that night, its pale light turning Romano's auburn hair a spotless silver, a tint that harmonized perfectly with the other things changed by the moonlight. It was like a famous painting, except he was the model. The lone man in a picture where there should have been two.

-xXVXx-

Spain was flipping through his mail for that day in the kitchen, trying to ignore the fact that Romano, who hated him, still hadn't called him back or shown his face. The Spaniard had been feeling terrible all day, both from the knowledge that Romano wasn't taking him back, and from the fact that his country appeared to be going through a major recession. There were strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his usually bright eyes were a murky sort of color, much like that of a swamp. Breath hissing in and out audibly his eyes alighted on a particularly expensive looking cream colored envelope that was slightly smaller than the rest. The official seal of his nation was stamped on the back, and the return address was his boss'.

Carefully ripping it open he pulled out a single page of thick cardstock, in a slightly lighter cream tint that the envelope was. Emblazoned boldly across the top of the page was "El Reino de España ha Caído." Just beneath his flag was proudly printed, looking as though it was fluttering softly in the evening breeze. There was an entire letter down below, but none of that mattered anymore. It wasn't like he was going to be sitting around discussing history with museum curators like years past.

That was when his vision began to permanently blur. Less than thirty seconds later the once proud nation was completely blind. His now milky orbs tried in vain to find the staircase on the edge of the kitchen. Stumbling forward in an almost drunken manner he felt his body begin to completely shut down; soon there was only a dull buzzing in his ears and numb limbs where his arms and legs formally resided.

-xXVXx-

As he slowly approached the worn wooden door, for some reason his mind replayed the time when he and Spain went on a crazy picture taking spree with the Rojigualda in various poses. That was the first day that Spain had tried to really make a move on him, and he had shoved it away due to anxiety. Even though he could see the hurt circulating in the Spaniard's eyes, the man never showed any sign of it. Needless to say they continued taking pictures. If his memory was anything to go by, many of them featured to intricate turtle figurine that Spain had gifted him with that day. Romano grimaced as he remembered how he had attempted to push it back to the sender on many occasions that day, even after turning down every attempt to further their relationship.

"Spagna you deserve better than a bastard like me."

-xXVXx-

"Romano," his hoarse voice croaked. "Te amo." The rest of his air whooshed out of his lungs, leaving them empty. That was the last breath that the Spaniard ever took. Distraught that he never got to see his favorite Italian one more time salt filled drops began to slide down his cheeks to splash on the floor, where his body landed not much later. He was choking on his own blood. Overflowing from his mouth the crimson liquid spurted onto the gray tile flooring, flooding around his prone upper half. The entire right side of his head was soaked in scarlet waves. The last sensation Spain felt was desolation. The once cheerful personification died thinking that his lover hated him.

-xXVXx-

The door was open. It was time to swallow his pride and go apologize to Spain for what he had done. Hopefully the Spaniard would be his usual happy self and forgive; though Italians were supposedly good at picking up partners, they clearly lacked in long term relationships.

"Spagna?" He called hesitantly. There was no response. "This isn't funny," he yelled after a few more shouts. The taller brunette wasn't on the upper level, so he was probably down where his kitchen and main living room were. Confused as to why he wasn't answering Romano felt a chill settle over his heart. What if this was Spain's way of saying that he most definitely wasn't forgiven? Closing his eyes suddenly to hold in the tears that threatened to spill over the Italian caught hold of himself. No matter what, he still had a sliver of reputation to retain. So he descended to twisted staircase, his eyes following the wood grains on the darkly stained steps as he moved forward.

Spain's body was lying on the ground on his stomach, feet closest to the bottom stair. The floor around his head was tarnished with a sinister ruby substance.

"Spagna?!" His tone lifted almost an octave in alarm as he slumped down next to the discolored brown tresses. After pulling the Spaniard's body onto its back he gently picked up his head and shoulders, completely supporting the limp form. Screaming illegibly Romano searched for any sign that his old mentor was alive. Squeaking out apologies and confessions he allowed his right hand to carefully stroke the dripping hair out of Spain's face, leaving red streaks. Sinking down he laid his head on the Spaniard's cold chest, yearning to hear the steady heartbeat that had never failed to guide him through hard times. Instead he heard nothing but the sound of his own organ pounding in his ears. Spain was never meant to be silent.

The bold lettering on a piece of paper near the table caught his attention. "El Reino de España ha caído." The Kingdom of Spain has fallen. Tentatively he grabbed the slightly wrinkled page, doing nothing but reading the title over and over again.

-xXVXx-

Romano stood in front of an elegantly carved headstone. He looked different with a formal black suit on, even the tie being a dismally dark shade. He was no longer shedding tears, but that was subject to change at any moment. Staring at "Antonio Fernández Carriedo" Romano slipped a hand into his pocket and removed the tiny turtle figurine he had received that day so long ago. Placing it on the top of the headstone the events of that date played out in his mind, making it harder to let go.

"Goodbye Spagna," he finally mouthed.


End file.
